Healing
by Le1a Naberr1e
Summary: Big AotC missing moment story about the Lars family, and how they managed to pick up the pieces of their life after the abduction, and death of Shmi.
1. Chapter 1

**Tatooine Incident **

**Healing (The Lars**'** Story)

* * *

****Chapter I**

"_Accept it son, your mother is dead."_

_The weight of his father's large hand on the boy's shoulder was not as heavy as the stark words that were intoned gently above his head. The boy stared numbly at the figure being mummified. A month earlier, his two-week old sister had died in his arms and he had wept until his head felt hollow. Now, as his mother's face disappeared under the wraps of the embalming cloth, his eyes were so dry, they smarted._

''

From outside came the roar of the scoop engine, the peculiar whine of high-energy repulsor-lifts against sand, and then silence.

"Your mother is dead, son. Accept it."

Pain had not so much suffused Mother Shmi son's face as it had bored through it, hollowing it out and leaving it stark with grief and anger. He had actually lifted his head, and shaken it slightly as if surprised at its sudden lightness.

Owen stared down at the scratch marks on the wooden table. He could feel his father's gaze on his neck and Beru's small hand in his elbow but inside he felt nothing, empty. It was not that he had forgotten so quickly. He doubted if any of them could ever really forget, but he had pushed the useless rage and bitterness into a rarely opened compartment in his mind and put himself to his work with a passion. Now, Anakin Skywalker's return had brought all those feelings to the fore again: the anger, the misery, the bitterness, the guilt. And he could barely stand to be in his own skin.

He pushed back from the table.

"I have work to do," he declared. Beru's hand slipped out of his elbow and she and Father watched him sadly until he left the room.

"This will be hard on him," Father said needlessly.

Beru sighed. "It will be hard on all of us, Shmi's son especially."

Father Cliegg shook his head gravely, as if he could not possibly comprehend the level of grief that Anakin Skywalker must be going through.

"There _is_ a chance, isn't there?" Beru asked suddenly. "Father Cliegg, he's a Jedi. Wouldn't he know if his mother were dead?"

She could see hope struggle desperately against realism on Father Cliegg's face. "I don't know, Beru. I don't know."

''

The comfort of routine had always suited Owen. Life had taught him early that grief and anger were best channelled into productive work or they would prove self-destructive. It was a lesson he had learnt after his mother's death.

By early evening, he looked at the harvest he had collected in half a dozen vats and he felt his spirits rise with a sense of accomplishment. He was locking up the storage room when he heard footfalls behind him. Automatically his hand went to the hand blaster that he always carried around now on the farm but before he could turn, he heard his name. He let his hand fall.

Beru was walking towards him, the foreign woman in tow.

"Finished?" she asked when she was within speaking distance.

He shrugged. "For today." A month ago, the work he had just completed in a few hours would have been done leisurely in one day; but the farm had lost a lot of money since then - money spent on Father's medical treatment and additional security facilities for the property. The farm had also lost a pair of hands to the raid on the Sandpeople.

Father had been indisposed early in the crisis and Owen had been forced into making some hard decisions on his own. Those decisions would have grievous consequences in exactly two days if by then the farm had not broken even and a little more.

Owen realized suddenly that his mind had wandered off and he forced himself to pay attention to Beru.

''

"So, can you go now?" Beru asked again.

Owen stared in confusion.

Beru looked at him, the expectant expression on her face bellying her alarm. Owen's distractedness had started a while ago, weeks after Shmi's capture and failed rescue. Father Cliegg had noticed it as well and he explained to her that that was Owen's coping mechanism. The normally stern taskmaster had been unusually accommodating of Owen's absentmindedness - something that would have caused him a stern talking-to in the past - and for that Beru was grateful.

"Padmé needs to collect her things from their transport," Beru repeated gently. "I'm busy in the house. Could you take her there in the landspeeder?"

She knew very well that even if she were not busy, Owen would not allow two women to take off from the farmstead on their own but he let her words slide without comment.

Owen nodded his acquiescence. Beru turned to Padmé, gave her arm a comforting squeeze and left the both of them. He kept his eyes on her until she had disappeared down the steps of the hut and the red the force field indicator light flashed on. He then turned to Padmé.

"Come with me. The speeder is out back."

''

The ship was not far away. It was actually walking distance from the farmstead and ordinarily, Owen would not have dreamed of wasting precious fuel on such a short journey. But the sand people had grown alarmingly fearless since the failed raid. They had lost relatively far less of their numbers than the moisture farmers and they were probably aware of it. A small boy had been taken a week ago from Dorr's farm. He was the only male in the family after his father and his uncle had died on the raid. Now his mother and his two even younger sisters were all alone on the farm, doing the work of five men because they had lost their hired hands as well and were too sensible to hire unknowns in their present state of vulnerability. None of their neighbours could help; almost every farmstead had suffered losses in that raid; it was all one could do to run their own farm, much less talk of helping others.

Owen felt the same powerless anger as before.

He glanced over at the foreign woman to distract himself. What was her name, again? Padmé. Yes. His brow furrowed.

He slowed down the speeder enough so that the wind did not carry his words away. "You've been on Tatooine before?" he ventured.

She looked startled. She too must have been lost in her own thoughts.

"Yes, I have," she replied, turning her head away from the wind. "About ten years ago, in fact... When Anakin left."

"I thought so," Owen answered and fell silent.

Padmé looked at him expectantly for a while, and then she shrugged and looked away.

The ship was exactly where she had said. It was a Nubian, sleek and streamlined, gleaming in the binary sunlight. Owen stared slack-jawed at it for a few seconds. Like any other young man his age, Owen knew a great deal about various types of space transport and he knew that this vessel was no average starship.

Padmé didn't exactly smile but her erstwhile sombre face brightened marginally. "I can just go inside and get my things while you wait here," she offered.

Owen snapped his jaws closed. "No. The raiders are not called sand people for nothing. There might very well be some hiding around here, staking the ship until its owners' come." Padmé shivered slightly. He held onto the rifle as he swung out of the landspeeder. "I'll follow you."

While she rummaged the ship for her belongings, he stood guard by the hatchway; he did not so much as glance into the ship for fear that the one moment he took his eyes from the endless sand would prove fatal.

"I'm finished." She said, coming down the hatchway and activating the locking mechanism. He looked up then and caught a brief glance for a large cockpit and state of the art equipment and furnishings before the hatchway sealed itself. She was holding a small bag.

"Will that be enough?" he asked surprised. Beru had carried a great deal more when she had started spending nights at the farmstead.

"It should be," Padmé said firmly. "I can always go back for more." His face must have shown some expression because she looked alarmed. "That is… if it won't be any problem." She added hastily.

She was their guest and he had no other choice than to be civil. Otherwise perhaps Owen would have explained to her how much fuel had been used on this trip and how foolhardy it was running around even the perimeter of the farmstead after what happened to Mother Shmi. But she was their guest and his brother's … friend so instead Owen merely said: "Please take as much as you might need. We have to be on our guard against raiders so this is not a trip that we should make very often."

A look of consternation crossed her face. "Of course," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. Please give me a little longer." And she went back into the ship.

''

It was long hours after they had switched off the power generators. The vaporators had been shut down and aside for the low hum of the solar batteries that supported the force fields, the farmstead was quiet.

An hour ago, Beru had taken Padmé into her improvised room. Until that afternoon it had been an abandoned storage room with piles of junk and spiders as its occupants. The two women busied themselves clearing out the room. Most of the junk consisted of damaged droids and machines, long abandoned because it was cheaper to improvise than repair but they found two strong mattresses and one large, thick white muslin cloth that could serve as a screen for privacy. Threepio made himself useful by carrying the junk down to the garage outside. Beru and Padmé cleaned out the empty room and opened the windows to free the dust. Beru covered the mattresses with Shmi's special flowered blankets. By the time they were through and Threepio brought in stones from the rock garden, the humble room was beautiful.

Padmé sat on the edge of her bed. By the light of the single candlestick on the floor, she looked at the old chrono they had salvaged. It was now six hours since Anakin had driven off into the horizon. Her eyes filled with tears.

At once, Beru sat down next to her and hugged her.

"It's OK, Padmé," she said, soothingly. "He'll be back."

"This shouldn't be happening," Padmé whispered. "This should never have happened."

"No," Beru agreed softly. "But what can we do?"

Padmé didn't answer. She was lying on her side on the bed with her feet on the floor.

"Please. let nothing happen to him, oh please," she whispered - to Beru, to her deities, to herself.

The melodramatic words almost sounded incongruous in the bleak emotionless voice that said them, but the starkness of the words was more convincing than if they had been cried out with passion. Beru's chest clenched sympathetically.

She recollected her own self - during the night of the attempted rescue by the farmers, waiting for news of Shmi from Owen and Father Cliegg, just waiting for Owen and Father Cliegg to come home, then waiting for news of Owen and Father Cliegg, venturing out of the farmstead the next morning to hear the horror stories of the massacre that had taken place the night before. She recollected the crippling, paralyzing fear of not knowing whether Owen had survived or not that had consumed her, then the equally paralyzing relief at his returned that afternoon from the clinic in Anchorhead where Father Cliegg's leg had been mended.

No one and nothing could have given her comfort during those hours of waiting and grieving except Owen alive and right in front of her; and no one except Anakin could comfort Padmé now.

Beru lifted the thick shawl on the foot of the bed and gently laid it over Padmé. "Get some rest," she said - uselessly, she knew. "We'll let you know as soon as he comes back." The candle was still burning long after she left the room.

''

Owen was not in his room. Beru found him downstairs by the kitchen window, his pensive face illuminated by the light of the three moons.

He made room for her on the bench and she sat, resting her cheek against his shoulder. He threw his arm around her shoulder and they comforted each other wordlessly.

After long moments, Owen was the first to speak.

"I wish I was double-jointed so I could kick myself."

Beru wiggled her arm until it was around his waist and squeezed.

Owen went on: "It's just that I felt..." He tried for words. "He's her son... and he's a Jedi. If anyone could say for certain that she's still alive... it would be him."

"I think so, too." She said softly.

Owen's grip tightened around her so suddenly that she felt his fingers dig into her shoulder. "But even then - what are the chances that he could... that he can do anything? There were thirty of us, Beru. Thirty. And Anakin is just one man."

"One Jedi," she corrected.

Owen snorted. "Do you believe all that Jedi stuff they show on holovids?"

"If you didn't believe in them, you wouldn't have let him go," said Beru sensibly.

"I don't think I could have stopped him anyway." His voice dropped into a heavy whisper. "He wouldn't have been able to stop me."

Beru rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. The silence swelled easily around them.

"It's four a.m. in the morning, Owen," she finally said, reluctantly. "And you haven't slept all day."

"And have you?" he retorted.

She shrugged. "There's nothing we can do until daybreak."

Owen squeezed her again.

"What if he doesn't come back?" He asked suddenly. "I gave him the scoop ... I helped him. I could have told him much more about the Raiders. I didn't tell him enough." Beru felt the pressure behind the words and held her peace so he could finish. "And if he does come back?" his voice dropped again. It was a mere whisper now and thick with emotion. "What if she's been alive all this while and we just abandoned her, left her for the dead? What does that make us? What does that make _me_?"

"Blameless," Beru said, with firm gentleness. "None of us are. And you did the best you could. You checked. Twice."

"That second time we barely even got close to the camp."

Owen grimaced as the unpleasant memory was forced to surface in his mind. It was a scene from a nightmare, that afternoon, so many times worse than the night of the raid where confidence in the beginning and adrenaline until the end had made him almost insensible to the violence going on around him. The second time had been in broad daylight. Although it Marxus Jinn's idea to venture into the Tusken settlement, Owen had accompanied him gladly.

The sight of the corpses shrunken and decaying and lying in a heap at the south side of the camp had struck fear and revulsion into their hearts and they had left as silently as they had come.

"I saw _bodies_, Beru," Owen declared. He felt the familiar maelstrom of rage, bitterness and trepidation swell inside him. "Things are going to be... Father said we've had these fights before, but he also said that it's never been this bad. They've become bold. The tribes must have banded up or something. They were so strong that night. And we lost so many. So many."

The silence that followed was not light and comforting but thick with foreboding.

"Do you think that they'll -" Beru ventured.

"I don't doubt it," Owen said firmly. "They're biding their time, trying to understand how to get past our new security... Then -"

"No!" gasped Beru.

"Yes," Owen said firmly. "I'm sure of it. They've done it before. Raided through an entire settlement. And they'll try it here. They know, you see, that there'll be no-one to stop them."

The truth of his words was as tangible as the coldness of the night. Beru shivered and huddled further in his arms. He held unto her firmly and they remained like that until the last moon disappeared beneath the desert horizon.

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

**Healing

* * *

****Chapter II**

''

Owen and Beru held hands all morning when the fear of missing the first moments of Anakin's arrival - or worse - had prevented them all from leaving the house. Her presence had been as comforting to him then as it had been the night before but despite her words, Owen could not stop thinking that if the worst happened, he was responsible and no one else.

The roar of the engine had freed them all of their fears and very briefly, brought to them unexpected and unsought-for hope. Hope that had been dashed all the more brutally for having been given at all.

''

At Cliegg's insistence, Shmi was laid to rest on her own bed. Beru covered the mattress with the same thick muslin that she put as a screen in Anakin's room; Owen gathered stones from the rock garden and made the traditional arrangement at the foot of the bed; Padmé drew the curtains and lit the candles; Cliegg sat on his hoverchair in a corner of the now darkened room and tried to reconcile the profile of the anonymous mummy with the gentle features of his wife.

After he had reverently placed his mother's body on the bed, Anakin had stalked into a darkened corner and blended with the shadows. Owen remembered passing by him when he returned from outside. Other than that, no one except Padmé, who stood across the room from Anakin with her eyes ever fixed on his face, paid much attention to him. Everyone's attention was on the embalmed figure on the bed. Padmé was the only one who knew when Anakin slipped out of the room and left them. The burning candles had diminished considerably when Cliegg looked up from his wife's face and saw that her son was no longer with them.

As if on cue, the young people started drifting out then. Owen was the last to leave, his face almost alien with emotion as he passed his father. Then they were all gone and Cliegg Lars was left alone with his wife. He drew his chair to the bedside and finally decided that yes, the profile of this dead thing was indeed his wife's.

_Twice widowed._

For long weeks now, the house had been trying to tell him that she was gone. He remembered the day he had finally had enough strength to leave his bed and his room and he had passed through the house and noticed the changes in the new way that books were stacked and the plates were placed to drain, the new solid meals that he was served and all the hundred little things that told him that it was a different woman from Shmi that did his housekeeping now. But somehow, even though the physical relics of her presence were being gradually erased from their home, he could not believe that she had completely left them. Her spirit was still very much with him, an almost tangible thing that he could almost reach and touch and there were times, early in the morning, between sleeping and waking when he felt that he need only roll over and his arm would fold around her.

When he woke up this morning, the illusion had left him. The air was thin and empty of any sense of her presence. His heart had jumped with pretended hope when the boy had returned; there was no real disappointment when he realized that the body Anakin lifted was lifeless. The old farmer had already felt his wife's passing sometime in the middle of the night when for the second time in his life, his heart had been broken into shards.

''

Cliegg went looking for the boy. He supposed that the girl - Padmé - would be the logical person to comfort Anakin but Cliegg suddenly felt greedy, desperate to have something of Shmi's to hold onto. Shmi had told him so much of her son that for the longest time, he had felt that he would know Anakin almost as much as Owen. But the person that turned up yesterday had not been a bright-eyed boy with a cheerful smile; neither had he been a stereotype Jedi with an imposing manner and wisdom beyond his years on his face. Anakin Skywalker was a strange young man with lines of unhappiness that had already marked his face before the news of his mother was broken to him. Yesterday, his face had been as transparent as plasti-glass as Cliegg broke the news, his eyes dark with pain and hopelessness as Cliegg recounted his mother's capture, his jaw straight with desperate resolve when he finally left. This morning, the man that returned with the prize that thirty men could not win was yet another stranger, one with a face that was no longer transparent but opaque beneath its mask of hatred and anger.

Anger and hatred directed at _him_, probably, thought Cliegg, sadly. Well, who could blame the boy? Perhaps, if his mother had been left as a slave to that Toydarian, she would be better off now. She would not be married to a man who was unable protect her from a fate worse than death.

Anakin was not in the house and a cursory glance around the farm yielded no sign of him. Cliegg wondered if he had gone off the farmstead. But the scoop was out back and the indoor monitors would indicate if the force field was breached from within. Cliegg began to ponderously examine the length and breadth of the farm silently, not calling because he already suspected that Anakin would not answer.

Half an hour later, Cliegg could feel the start of phantom pains in his leg, a sure sign that he was beginning to tire. He was also beginning to get worried. Where could Shmi's son be? Could he have used his Jedi powers to breach the force field without registering on the monitors?

Threepio was standing by the second vaporator, taking readings when Cliegg zoomed towards him.

"Master Cliegg!" the droid declared in its characteristic perpetually surprised manner. "I was not expecting to see you out at this hour! Mistress Beru would not be pleased," it added fretfully. It launched into a part-rebuking, part-devoted monologue on the importance of the physical limitations imposed on Cliegg by Mistress Beru and the medical droid that attended to him once a week.

Cliegg just let it rant on. During his convalescence, he had been surprised to realize that he actually missed the droid's irritating idiosyncrasies. Threepio had been turned out of the house after Shmi's capture; its constant monologue of dread and anxiety had not only been disturbing to the humans, but also to itself; the unusual level of anxiety threatened to permanently damage its personality motivator. A simple and cheap memory-wiping was the most logical solution but not even Owen had dared suggest that. Instead, Owen had come up with the next best alternative: Threepio was assigned duty outside the homestead, and out of the reach of people with whom it could interact. The isolation had enabled the droid's mechanical emotions to sort out themselves better than if they were a constant source of irritation to the humans. More practically, Threepio's contribution to the farm work was indispensable now that they could no longer afford hired hands.

Just one example of the string of innovations Owen had implemented during this crisis. Cliegg felt a sudden burst of pride as he thought of his son. The Lars' family was not the wealthiest in the farmlands but they had always been comfortable. Purchasing Shmi had punched a large hole through their finances. Cliegg never regretted it though. He rather considered himself lucky that he got her for what he did; he would have willingly paid that Toydarian a great deal more. The farm had been set back for years after that and it was estimated that they would be breaking even with next season's harvest.

Then Shmi was taken and a chain of events triggered that resulted in not only the loss of Cliegg's wife, but his friends, neighbours, and hired hands. There was the surgery on Anchorhead, his medical treatment, the second-hand hoverchair, the bills that he insisted on paying for the Kendall family… Cliegg had spent his weeks of convalescence close to mentally injuring himself with anxiety and guilt: Shmi, the farm, his son's inheritance… He had failed them all on so many levels.

The day Cliegg was finally well enough to move around the house, Owen gave him an up-to-date report of the farm's status. Cliegg just sat at the kitchen table and stared and stared at the datapads, unable to believe his eyes. He had pulled himself from his bed that morning expecting the worst. Instead, from Owen's reports, the farm, although still running below its average productivity levels, was far from the bankruptcy that Cliegg had dreaded. After that, Cliegg focused his energy on getting better and gave Owen free rein to manage the farm, partly because he was still too weak to be more than a hindrance, and partly because he knew that no one could do a better job. How Owen ran the farm with less than half of its usual labour and drastically diminished liquid resources was still beyond Cliegg. How Owen bore the burden of his responsibilities alongside his grief over Shmi and his lost friends with nothing more profound than the occasional lapse of memory shaking his dependability was a mystery to his father. But somehow, the boy - no, the _man_ - was doing it. And no father could be more proud of his son than Cliegg was of Owen.

_When was the last time I said "Good job" to Owen?_ Cliegg wondered suddenly. _Have I _ever_ said so to him since I got out of that bed?_ He did not think so. It was a dreadful mistake, one he intended to rectify as soon as possible. Life was too short. Life was too damn short. If he had never thought so before, the look on Anakin Skywalker's face as he carried his mother's body home was testament to the fact.

Cliegg broke out of his reverie and returned his attention to the droid.

Threepio was _still_ talking.

"Where is Anakin, Threepio?" Cliegg asked, cutting off the droid's soliloquy.

"Master Ani in the garage, sir," replied the droid after a small miffed pause. "He asked me for the toolbox but I'm afraid Master Owen keeps it in a locked storage cabinet when he's not using it."

Cliegg was so surprised that he forgot to be irritated at Threepio. Whatever did Shmi's son need a toolbox for?

To the best of Cliegg's knowledge, the ship Anakin had come with was undamaged. What could he possibly need to repair? Or was there something else he needed tools for? Mentally, Cliegg ran through the inventory of instruments in the box: fasteners, cutters, borers… all standard hand tools, which needed careful handling otherwise they could cause severe personal damage…

A frightening possibility suddenly entered Cliegg's mind. Without another word Threepio, he pointed the hoverchair towards the garage and zoomed off.

''

Cliegg found the answers to his questions a few moments later. It was as far off the mark as it could possibly be from his wild speculations of self-inflicted violence and suicide. He felt distinctly foolish as he floated in his chair in the dusty doorway of the garage door.

Anakin stood at the work table, half bent over the myriad of broken machines and droid parts scattered in front of him. He worked methodically, using his bare hands and tools he must have had with him; a look of intense concentration had replaced the livid mask of emotion that had been on his face that morning.

"_You're throwing away that filter? If my Anakin were here, he would have fixed it."_

The memory came so quickly and unexpectedly that Cliegg actually turned, expecting to see her by his shoulder. He was acutely disappointed when his eyes met only empty air.

His eyes turned back to Shmi's son. The boy worked on steadily, giving no indication that he was aware of Cliegg's presence.

"You find anything worth repairing there, son?" Cliegg asked from the doorway.

Anakin ducked his head even lower. "A few things," he said tonelessly.

Cliegg nodded then he zoomed up to the high shelves. He unlocked the locker with his code and retrieved the old tool box. He zoomed back down and placed it on the table.

The boy bowed jerkily. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly. He laid aside the part he was working on and reached for the toolbox. Cliegg stared listlessly at the rusted machine part until he suddenly recognised it. It was an old chrono that Owen had won for Shmi a few seasons back during one of the Sand Fairs at Anchorhead. Yesterday, the girls had thrown it out as well as the rest of the junk in the storage room when they tidied up the room for Anakin to use.

The sound of metal clattering on the table drew Cliegg's attention back to Anakin. He was bent over something on the floor. One of the tools had slipped from his grip. It had broken through skin and red blood mingled with black grease on pale skin. Anakin straightened up and continued his work, completely ignoring the wound.

The action did not repulse Cliegg as much as it anguished him. The boy's pain was as closed off now as it had been vivid yesterday but it was all the more heartrending for that. And Cliegg was as powerless to reach out and comfort Shmi's son as he had been to his own son almost ten years ago.

His mind drifted to yesterday. He had watched the girls prepare the storage room for Anakin with the same impotent weariness. Cliegg could almost picture Shmi in Beru's shoes, older and happier as she prettied a room for her son to use. His wife had never said as much, but it was always understood that she was waiting for Anakin to finish his training and come and see her. Why Anakin was not allowed to see her before then was something she had never managed to explain sufficiently to Cliegg.

"His Master said it would conflict him," she had said. "He's young. He needs stability."

"What is unstable about a boy seeing his Mother?" Cliegg had retorted, genuinely puzzled. He had had half a mind to send a message to Coruscant about the matter. Seeing how dreadfully unhappy it made his wife, despite her attempts to hide it, had irked his short temper. It had taken Cliegg a long time to finally accept that it was her business and he had better leave well enough alone.

The girl had told them yesterday that Anakin was disobeying his Master by being here. Well, Cliegg might have been a simple moisture farmer but he could understand about rules, duty and blind obedience. His problem was not with obeying idiotic rules but making them in the first place. If, after his own stupidity and the Sand People's barbarism, Cliegg still had any anger to spare, it would probably be for the idiot Jedi that had prevented the boy from seeing his mother in the first place.

But as it stood, all of Cliegg's anger had burnt out during his weeks in this chair and what remained was the numbed acceptance of his own powerlessness.

Anakin continued his work, completely ignoring Cliegg. The old farmer felt at a complete loss. He had wanted to meet this boy, to talk to him, help him somehow…

…_to ask his forgiveness…_

but he had nothing to say now.

"If you need anything, son, I'll be in the house," Cliegg said.

"Yes, sir."

The colourless voice did not invite confidences. Cliegg gave the boy one last look, then he steered his chair out of the garage.

''

It was time for second meal; Beru busied herself in the kitchen preparing it. Owen sincerely doubted if anyone aside from Father, who would of course be bullied into it, would be able to muster up enough appetite to eat it. He helped her all the same, as usual finding respite in both her proximity and a familiar routine. Padmé found something to do that did not take her too far away from the north window where she watched as Father's hoverchair approached the house.

There was the familiar buzz of the repulsorlifts and Owen looked up just as his father entered the room.

"He was in the garage," Father said.

Padmé got up at once.

"Leave him be, lass," Father said gently. "He's fine, he's busy, working on some of that junk you lassies threw out yesterday. Give him time."

She nodded slowly and sat down again.

They were still giving him time hours later when evening was falling and Beru was back in the kitchen making third meal. This time, it was Owen's turn to watch from the north window as Padmé's small figure, food tray balanced in her arms, disappeared behind the garage outpost.

"You gave him tools to work with, Father Cliegg?" asked Beru suddenly. "That was kind of you."

Owen looked up in surprise. Father grunted and insisted that Anakin was probably saving them a small fortune by working on their stuff; providing him with tools was cheap remuneration.

Beru smiled a little as she placed his food in front of him. Father grimaced but he knew better than to argue and he started on it reluctantly.

"I missed a whole day's work today," Owen declared suddenly, staring down at his hands. There was no escaping the mundane facts of their existence even with the reopened wound of Mother Shmi's loss still fresh.

Beru reached over and took one of his hands. Father grunted again.

"You need a break, Owen," he said firmly. "I go over the schedule every morning. You and Beru have been doing the work of four men for close to a month and we've barely fallen behind last year's produce since harvest season started. That doesn't seem natural to me. You're doing a fine job, and don't you forget it."

Beru gasped. Owen's jaw dropped. Direct compliments from the taciturn Cliegg Lars were few and far between. Each one was treasured and buried in Owen's memory like a precious stone. He could feel his face turning red and an embarrassed lump rose up in his throat.

Father carefully placed his tray on his lap and propelled his chair from the table.

"Father Cliegg?" asked Beru in surprise.

"I'm going to my room," he said gruffly before the hoverchair zoomed out of the room. Beru looked after him, concern written all over her face.

Owen swallowed hard and tried to distract her. "Are they still there?" he asked, referring to Anakin and Padmé.

"I guess so," Beru shifted her gaze from the door Father had passed through, to the North window, "they would be here if they weren't."

"I need to go to the Dorrs tomorrow and get our shovels back." - She winced. - "And... I have to get to town early to take advantage of the early market."

Beru nodded. She looked at him and managed a smile. "It isn't nightfall yet, Owen. Let's see what we can do before it gets dark."

They held hands as they left the table and did not separate their link until they reached the first vaporator. Even then, the connection between them remained a tangible thing as they worked in tandem under the setting suns.

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

**Healing****

* * *

Chapter III **

''

Cliegg Lars kept faithful vigil at the side of his dead wife that night. Beru brought him last meal and sat with him for a while. Owen joined them, staying on after Beru left, long into the early hours of the morning when Cliegg abruptly woke up from a sudden nap.

"You should have woken me," Cliegg grumbled.

"Mother Shmi won't let me."

It was neither meant nor was it taken as a joke.

At Cliegg's insistence, Owen left and Cliegg was alone with his wife for the last time.

Hours later, the first rays of the binary sun pierced through the window screens of the bedroom; shards of light flickered gravely on the old farmer where he sat with his face in his hands, shaking with silent sobs.

''

It was still early morning when Cliegg finally came down; yet apparently, aside from Padmé, he was the last riser. Beru, Owen and Anakin were sitted at the kitchen table, talking softly, in low voices. They looked up when Cliegg drew closer and fell silent.

_Blast this damn chair_. There was no sneaking up on people in the contraption.

"Father, we were just waiting for you." Owen said.

Cliegg zoomed to the head of the table as Beru got up and went into the kitchen. His eyes moved automatically to Anakin's face. The boy was pale and clean-shaven with an expression on his face that was far from happy but it was a big improvement from his apperance yesterday. Not quite peaceful but not closed off or furious.

Beru returned to the table with a glass of blue milk that she placed in front of Cliegg. There followed momentarily an awkward pause.

Anakin swallowed hard and then broke it. "I… I wanted to know if you've decided on arrangements."

Cliegg shared a glance with Owen. They had not precisely planned anything; there had not been the time or the inclination to yesterday. Of course, there were standard procedures that were native to the desert farmers but perhaps Anakin might want some Jedi ritual or even something peculiar to Shmi's origins to be performed. Both men had decided to just wait until Anakin was in a suitable state to discuss the matter.

He told Anakin as much.

Anakin's face twisted. "I appreciate that. Thank you."

_For what?_ "You're her son," Cliegg said firmly. "You don't have to thank us."

Anakin looked down at the table. His fingers idly traced the markings that Owen must have made there at one time or the other when he was younger.

"What were you planning on doing? What would you have done if I weren't here?"

Owen spoke up. "We would have laid her to rest here on the farm. With just a short ceremony for the family." His mouth curved bitterly. "As it stands, every homestead is in mourning in one way or the other."

There was a flash of something on Anakin's face - anger, shame? - but it was gone so quickly that Cliegg could not swear that he had not imagined it.

"That's fine with me," Anakin said quietly. "She was happy here. This was her home." He raised his head and his eyes looked at Cliegg with transparence that reflected something other than suspicion or confusion or hatred. There was pain there, still, but it was tempered with something like gratitude. "I didn't think to tell you but I am very grateful that you freed her," he said quietly. "That you gave her something of her own before…" His voice trailed off.

Cliegg was struck speechless for a while, his heart lightening in his chest. Then he found his voice and said harshly, "She was my wife. You don't owe me anything." His voice shook. "I'm just sorry that I couldn't -"

Anakin shook his head fiercely and Cliegg stopped.

There was another pause. Then Owen got up. "We can have the ceremony today. I have to go to town this morning. I'll be back in a few hours." His eyes met Anakin. "If it's all right with you, we can prepare the grave together."

Anakin hesitated fractionally then he nodded.

Owen leaned down to give Beru a one-armed hug and he then left the house. Cliegg watched him go and turned back to see Anakin staring also after Owen with another strange - _envious?_ - look but that also passed too quickly for the farmer's reckoning.

"Please do you have any wood to spare?" Anakin asked, suddenly.

Cliegg exchanged a surprised glance with Beru. "I'm sure we can find some around the house," Cliegg said. "May I ask what for?"

"It's for my Mother." The corner of his lip went up a bit. It was so much his mother's smile that Cliegg was actually startled. "It's one of the few things she ever told me about where we originally came from. We bury our dead with their faces masked and we keep copies for the family. Jedi are not allowed to own things but if you like, I could make a mask for you."

It was the longest speech the boy had made to them.

_I could make a mask for_ you.

"What kind of wood do you need, son?" asked Cliegg at once.

''

Jen Dorr was ten years older than Owen. She had stayed in the Lars' farmstead for a year after the boy's mother had died and taken care of Owen during that time. He had always remembered her as a bubbling, warm presence that he had both resented and drawn comfort from during that time, more than he had from his taciturn father.

The woman that spoke to him through the force field barrier of the Dorr farm had to be Jen. She was the same height, had the same shape of face and the same colour hair. But those bright, sparkling blue eyes that had been a constant feature in that year of Owen's life had morphed into a unrecognizable dull, lifeless blue. There was no sparkle in this woman's face, only grim lines of determination and repressed sorrow that had aged her far more than time alone could have done.

"I hear you've started selling your harvest," she told Owen, as she switched off the force field and passed the shovels to him.

He threw back a yes as he carefully strapped his tools to the back of the speeder.

"So, hopefully you might be a little less busy on the farm today and lend us a hand here."

Owen's face burned with empathic shame. She spoke the request flippantly but Owen knew that it was a genuine plea for help. She couldn't afford to promise him wages and she wasn't doing so. It must be mortifying for her to ask at all.

"Sure thing," he threw back just as flippantly. She gave a grimace that might have been meant as a smile and switched on the force field. They cost the earth and the moon, these force fields, with their generators and solar batteries and perimeter surveying, and were a big factor in the sudden impoverishment of most of the smaller farmsteads; that, and of course, the loss of manpower they had all sustained after the fight.

The knuckles of his grip on the steering wheel turned red then white with renewed anger and Owen accelerated a little more than wisely as he made his way into town.

''

The prices had started dropping. Owen had had an advantage for over a week when he started selling before the harvest season. Now other farmers had literally flooded the market with their produce and the prices had come down. In fact, the prices had gone lower than usual. The retailers had learnt of the crippling of the settlement and they were going to exploit the situation as best they could.

Owen's hands shook when he counted the payment that was just over three-quarters of what a vat would have gone for last year and half of what he had got for it the previous week. He supposed he should be thankful that he had managed to make rather a great deal of profit last week. But this out-and-out cheating (the retailer he had sold to had been the only one to offer to buy above the three-quarter price) infuriated him on the behalf of his fellow farmers, people like Dorr who would need all the help they could get to break even and who were relying completely on this year's poor harvest.

He found his way back to the parked speeder and got in. His hands were still shaking so badly that he decided to wait a little longer before he started the engine. They really could not afford any more expenses. He wished Beru was here and he was glad she was not. She would never have approved of the circumstances surrounding his next stop. It was not her place to understand anyway. Owen had had to be the man after Father's accident and there were a lot of hard decisions that he could only make on his own.

The union needed to be revived. Most of the members were gone, of course. It would be chiefly young men of Owen's age that would comprise the majority and even then, they would still be a fraction of their original number. But that was the only way they would be able to survive the cutthroats in town.

How they would survive the cutthroats in the desert, Owen still did not know.

He had one more vat to sell tomorrow and then harvest season would end for the Lars. He recalled their account balance on his data pad. The figure was as expected. Paying off the loan would wipe off most of the money there but by the time he sold tomorrow and in a couple of months when Father Cliegg's hover chair could be sold and the medical expenses stopped, they would break even. Just.

His hands had stopped shaking. Owen put the data pad back into his pocket and restarted the engine. He had to pay a visit to a loan shark.

''

The being's snout hovered over the figures on the data pad. Owen wondered what the stalks on the top of its head were for if it seemed to need to examine objects with its snout but he kept that observation to himself.

It was a species that Owen neither knew nor cared to know. What had been important at their introduction three weeks ago was that it was not a Hutt and its 'office' had seemed respectable enough. Owen did not doubt for a minute that the respectability of appearances served to attract fastidious people like himself and when things went rough, the establishment would unleash its disrespectful elements. But fortunately, it would not come to that in his case.

Suddenly, Owen remembered Father's compliment from the day before and his face flushed, but this time, it was with shame. But he had not had a choice. He had done what he had to do to keep the farm. And it was over now; he would pay this creature its money and that would be that.

When the creature seemed to be - finally - satisfied, it threw the data pad at him.

"So, where the rest?" it asked.

"What?" Owen asked.

"The rest?" it repeated slowly as if it were talking to a daft child. "The rest? You pay the principal. What about interest, heh? You think I give money out of charity?" It must have smiled because all of a sudden, its snout lifted and Owen could see greying spikes the size of his fingers underneath its snout.

"Is this some kind of joke?" he asked coldly.

"Perhaps, you not understand, heh?" The snout went over the teeth and pushed towards Owen. There were two lights glowing in what Owen assumed to be its nostrils and he realized suddenly that the creature's 'snout' did indeed house its eyes.

"You come for money of so-so much and say you pay me back so-so date. Fine. We settle interest, we calculate amount, we agree, I give. You come so-so date. You pay. Simple, heh?"

"This is the amount we agreed on," Owen said through gritted teeth. "What the Hell are you trying to pull?"

"The amount, yes. The net amount, yes. No taxes. Where taxes? We pay taxes, see? We give Uncle Jabba his money, see?" It showed its teeth again.

"Then why didn't you say so at first!" shouted Owen.

The creature shrugged. Its upper limbs rose and fell from their joints. "There in our agreement. Besides," and its alarming canines flashed, "how you think I do business with such low interest if I pay my own taxes?" It picked up the datapad and scrolled down the display until the screen showed the copy of the transaction it had drawn up with Owen. Owen snatched the pad and looked at the figures. There it was, written in the smallest font, only readable with the maximum resolution:

'Borrower pays tax deductions on principal and interest according to current going rates.'

He scrolled through the data pad until the Anchorhead market figures came up.

'Current rates on loan principals and interest are 30. Assumed to rise after the moisture harvest.'

Owen lunged for the creature's snout. It slipped out from behind its desk and before Owen could turn around, it was behind him and its snout lifted over his arm.

"Aaaah!"

It let go of Owen and Owen could see three marks of blood where its teeth had dug into his arm.

"No worry! No worry!" it cried conversationally, "no infection, see," it showed Owen its bloodstained teeth, "my teeth - very clean."

"You little weasel!" gasped Owen, frantically dabbing at the wound.

"Me weasel!" cried the creature, affronted, "I beg your pardon! You not grateful that I not have collectors shake you up. You pay for their bill, heh?"

"How the Hell are you going to make me pay for this!" challenged Owen. "Cut off my arm with your teeth?"

The creature actually seemed to pause and consider this. "No, think not. Your arm not agreeable to my system. But you forget your collateral - you not read the small print, heh? You are good customer, I see. You place your farm as collateral. You not pay me, I get farm."

Owen felt the blood rush to his feet. "No."

"He say no," the creature said in surprise. "I say yes. My money or your farm... It is yes, see? Better I think, to leave now and look for money, heh? Grace period only 48 hours. And interest per hour after initial tenure is reached." He pointed at the data pad.

If Owen was pale before he was almost fainting from shock now. It would amount to almost the entire principal he loaned in the first place. The farm didn't have that much liquid cash. They'd have to sell off at least two vaparators to get the money and that would set them back permanently.

The creature was still talking, uttering its half-sentences with that simplicity that buried its cunning and ruthlessness.

"You're not going to get away with this," Owen managed and he walked out of the office.

"Always they say that," muttered the creature. "Can they not think something more original?"

''

The mask fitted perfectly. The smooth wooden visor looked so real that Cliegg actually reached out and touched it.

"This is yours," Anakin said quietly and he placed the second mask in Cliegg's free hand. Cliegg looked down at the equally perfect replication of his wife's profile.

"Did you make another one?" he asked suddenly.

"No."

"Not even for yourself?"

"Jedi don't own things."

"You don't have to be a Jedi anymore."

Anakin started. His eyes stared at Cliegg. Cliegg went doggedly on. He had dwelt on this during the better part of the morning and he had decided to say it, for better or for worse.

"You don't have to go. This is _your home._ You can stay here."

Anakin's face went red, his eyes filled and he looked away. There followed a horrifying moment during which Cliegg feared the boy would actually burst into tears. But when Anakin squared his shoulders and turned back to Cliegg, his eyes, though bright were completely and mercifully dry.

"I have to go back," Anakin answered heavily, "and finish my training."

"I'm not trying to misguide you son," Cliegg said gravely but firmly. "I just want to let you know that you have a choice. This is your home and you can come back here anytime you want." Cliegg smiled suddenly. "It's not like we can't use the extra help around the farm."

Anakin's face lightened fractionally.

"At least, think about it a while. There's no hurry, is there? You can stay here for a while longer."

"I'm not supposed to be here at all," Anakin said bleakly. "I'll a lot to answer to Obi-Wan when I get back."

"Obi-Wan?"

"My Master."

Cliegg made an irritated noise and Anakin looked up at him.

"He's a good man," Anakin said dully. "It's just that … he doesn't always understand." His face clouded again. "And I'll have to explain it to him."

"Then go back and explain," Cliegg said firmly, "and when you're done explaining, you come back here."

Long seconds of silence followed. From the look on Anakin's expressive face, the boy actually seemed to consider Cliegg's offer.

Then a bell-like noise sounded suddenly in the house. It was the warning sound that jingled whenever the force field was breached. Familiar voices came from downstairs. Owen was home.

The mood between the two men was broken with the silence. Anakin's shoulders slumped heavily. Cliegg knew without being told what decision his stepson had reached and Cliegg felt the disappointment more acutely than he had anticipated.

Anakin walked over to him and held out his hand. "I thank you for your hospitality and for your offer, sir." His tone was as formal as his gesture.

Cliegg clasped the hand firmly. "This is your home," he said firmly. "You owe me no thanks. And whenever you want to come back, you just walk through the door."

Anakin returned the pressure. Then he let go of his stepfather's hand and walked out the door.

_tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

**Healing****

* * *

Chapter IV **

''

The restlessness of the past nights and days had taken their toll. When Padmé woke up that morning, both suns were high in the sky.

She looked around at once for Anakin. He was not with her, although she vividly remembered going back to him in the garage and wrapping herself around him until sleep came. In fact, she was not in the garage at all. She was back in Beru's room and she was alone. She must have been moved; Anakin must have carried her from the garage. Padmé let herself imagine that: being cradled in his arms as he lifted her, her cheek against the not-soft, not-harsh cloth of his robe, his large hands holding her body to him. She sighed pensively; then she mentally shook herself in exasperation.

She was so tired of rationalizing her emotions.

Padmé's grandmother had taught her to take comfort in the soothing diversity of fabrics and the intricacies and symbolisms of garments; but today, her wardrobe mocked her. Red and grey were the colours for calamity, war and death. But Padmé had not allowed herself to anticipate a funeral and all she had were the multi-coloured velvets that had been selected arbitrarily two days ago in Naboo. In the end, she laid out one of her flight suits; it was the least complicated of her outfits and it was, at least, one colour.

When she got out of the fresher, she found a wooden comb under Beru's pillow and started detangling her hair. She had neglected it since her first night at Tatooine; then she had tried to distract herself during the futile wait for Anakin's return by brushing her hair until her arms ached. Afterwards, between the waiting the next day, his eventual return, his story, and the final testimony of her own eyes, she had had no time or thought to change her clothes to say nothing of touching her hair.

She was tugging through a thick knot when Beru entered the room.

"Let me," she said at once and Padmé gratefully conceded.

Beru freed the comb from the tangle and carefully kneaded Padmé's hair with her palms before she started combing.

"Where's … everyone?" Padmé whispered.

Beru looked at the back of her head. "Owen is not back from Anchorhead, he went off this morning to sell the vats. Father Cliegg is in Mother Shmi's room. He … it hasn't been easy." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Anakin is outside now. He brought you here this morning."

Padmé's head bent lower beneath Beru's comb. "How is … has he eaten anything?"

"Yes, with Father Cliegg and me… He asked for some wood … to carve her death mask."

Padmé's head jerked and the comb tugged painfully through a knot. Beru made the hairdresser's universal wordless murmur, that sound that somehow managed to be both rebuke and apology. They relapsed into silence.

''

Padmé had such lovely hair, Beru thought with a little envy. Long hair was rare in Tatooine; the dry climate made tresses brittle. And, as Beru's mother would constantly remind her, even when you managed to grow it long, it was still not practical to keep it. The air in Naboo must be heavy with water to be able to allow such luxuriant growth.

She told Padmé as much as she smoothed out the dark curls.

"That's why my hair is always in these plaits," Beru explained. "I suppose I'll cut it short eventually. But every now and then, just before the harvest when the nights are warm with vapour, I like watching Owen's face when I let it down."

Padmé giggled. It sounded stifled, as if it was not a sound that her lungs had much practice in making.

"I could weave up your hair as well," Beru offered impulsively. "To keep it safe from the dust and the dryness. You should have kept it covered all the while, in fact. You're really lucky that your hair is so strong."

It was only Padmé's ingrained manners that prevented her from declaring petulantly that at this moment, she did not care if every single strand of hair fell out of her scalp. Instead she thanked Beru and sat patiently until the last curl of hair was tucked into the complicated style.

When she finished, Beru fetched her small hand mirror and the two girls stared and blinked in surprise at their reflections.

With their similar delicate features and matching braids; and the aesthetic contrast between Beru's dark skin and pale hair and Padmé's pale skin and dark hair, they looked like inverted matching images - or they might have been sisters.

"Eirtaé," Padmé said softly. She tentatively touched her coils and her face lit up with pleasure. "Thank you."

Beru's eyes twinkled. "See?" she said rhetorically. "Every strand accounted for. Anakin will be pleased."

Padmé coloured and Beru laughed.

''

By the time Owen got home, he had decided what to do. It was remarkably simple really and once he had made up his mind, a bizarre sensation of complete emotional imperviousness seemed to take over his spirits. His mind worked completely and clearheadedly towards his goal.

First of all, he would need some help, specifically help in the person of -

"Threepio, could you come down for a minute."

Not exactly a person.

"Yes, of course, Master Owen," the droid said with no small relief, and it started its careful descent down the ladder of the vaparator. Threepio disliked physical labour of any variety. "How may I be of service?"

"Where's everyone?"

"In the house, sir, unless I am very much mistaken."

Perfect. Unless Father or Anakin came upon them suddenly, this was as good a time as ever.

"Threepio, your recorder is still functional, isn't it?"

"But, of course, Master Owen," the droid said, with pride. "My audio circuits are in top functional condition, my receiver has tuning capacities to receive and transmit sounds of multi-frequency capabilities and my audio log program is -"

"Threepio."

"Yes, Master Owen?"

"Shut up."

"Of course, Master Owen."

''

Through the kitchen window, Beru looked into the rock garden and observed the prone sitting figures of Padmé and Anakin Skywalker. They talked very little, mostly just leaned against each other silently as Anakin worked on the piece of wood in his hand. Feeling like a spy, Beru drew away from the window.

A few minutes later, she heard them descending down the steps into the house. They both looked calmer and more at peace than Beru had seen so far, although that was not saying much. Anakin gave her a brief nod as he passed by on his way to Father Cliegg's room. Padmé came to meet her.

"I'm ready."

"Are you sure you want to come?" Beru asked her again. "Father Cliegg usually accompanies me."

"I need to do something," Padmé said simply.

Beru led her to the large cupboard in the corridor where they kept the few tools they used in the house. She opened it, pulled out a blaster rifle and handed it to Padmé.

"No one goes weeding in the mornings again," Beru said matter-of-factly, "or alone or unarmed."

Padmé nodded as she swung the strap of the rifle over her shoulder in a way that showed she was used to handling that kind of weapon. Pleased, Beru turned back to the cupboard; she took a rifle for herself, two sunhats, the few tools that were not on the farm and shut the cupboard door. "Okay, let's go."

They were on their way out of the house when the jingle of the force-field barrier sounded. They literally bumped into Owen at the steps; off-balanced, Beru flailed until he caught hold of her and held unto her tightly. Very tightly. For an unnecessarily long time.

"Ow," she said finally, more for Padmé's sake than her own.

"Sorry," he said and let her go.

She stepped back, blushing a bit and smiling. Her smile almost immediately dissolved into a frown when she took in the expression on his face. Or rather, the lack of expression. Owen had the most open, most _honest _face that she knew. It was shuttered, now, closed off and secretive.

Something was wrong.

"Owen, what's-?" she began.

"Where's Anakin?" He asked abruptly.

"He's with Father Cliegg," she replied at once. "Owen-?" she tried again.

Owen turned quickly to Padmé. "Good-day, Miss." He slanted a deliberate glance at Beru.

Her mouth thinned ominously but she took the hint and stopped pressing. For now.

"How was town, today?" She asked, instead.

The shutters seemed to close further. Whatever was the matter?

"Fine," Owen said in an inscrutable voice. "I'd better let Anakin know that I'm back. He's been waiting for me." Moving very quickly, he walked down the steps and disappeared into the house.

Beru stared after him, still frowning. He had walked funny, his arm tucked into his side as if he was trying to hide something.

"What is it?" Padmé asked, a look of concern on her face. She, too, must have noticed Owen's strangeness.

Beru shook her head worriedly. "I don't know." She hesitated for a few moments, then she shrugged. _He'll tell me when he's good and ready._ "There's work to do. Let's go."

''

There was plenty of work to do. After weeding the vaparators, the two young women cleaned out each filter and re-configured the monitoring equipment. It was hard, numbing work done under the blazing hot suns and it was just what Padmé needed. It was only when the whine of the repulsors heralded Father Cliegg's approach that Beru insisted on a break (otherwise, as she said, Father Cliegg would insist on helping them and tire himself out). The three of them went out of the heat and into the control room where Padmé listened quietly to Father Cliegg and Beru discussing plans for the farm and something about the yearly overhaul to be done the next day. Feeling antsy, she finally wandered off ("Not too far where we can't see you." Beru and Father Cliegg ordered). With that internal magnet that seemed to have developed in her these past few days, Padmé somehow found herself within viewing distance of the Lars' burial site - and Anakin.

Anakin had removed his cloak and his over shirt and if Padmé squinted, it almost seemed that he was wearing a darker version of Owen's farmer clothes. At the moment, Owen was leaning against his shovel, not exactly catching his breath but taking a rest all the same. Anakin jumped into the hole and started shovelling out the sand. She could see from the steady motion on Owen's face that they were talking hard.

Padmé removed her sunhat and made herself as comfortable as she could on the sandy ground.

A familiar whirring, stirring noise came up from behind her. She turned around to see the protocol droid shuffling slowly towards her. She smiled. Beru and Father Cliegg had probably sent him.

"Hello, Threepio," she called.

"Miss Padmé," the droid said in its characteristic perpetually surprised voice. "I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, Miss."

"That's okay, Threepio," she said fondly. "I'm glad of your company."

The droid shuffled to stand beside her and bent its mechanical neck to look down at the men beneath them.

"Did you know that Miss Akia and Miss Aki are buried beneath those markers?" Threepio asked.

Padmé turned to look at the droid. "No. Who are they?"

"Master Owen's mother and his baby sister. Miss Akia died during childbirth and Miss Aki a few weeks later."

So Cliegg Lars was now twice widowed. And Owen had lost two mothers. Padmé's eyes filled; she blinked blindly at the hot desert glare.

"Miss Padmé, are you alright?"

She opened her mouth to speak and quickly covered it with her hand.

"Oh, dear, oh dear, I am terribly sorry, Miss. I have upset you, haven't I? Forgive me, Miss? I did not mean -"

Almost despite herself, Padmé laughed. The mechanical fretting voice was too intrinsically comical to resist. She removed her wet hand from her face. "Threepio, you haven't offended me in the least."

The protocol droid was not convinced. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" He wailed. "I don't know what to do anymore! I came to ask you for assistance and now I have alarmed you."

"You haven't alarmed me in the least, Threepio," Padmé said more firmly, and more loudly over the droid's monologue.

"Oh Miss Padmé, are you quite sure?" He wailed plaintively.

"Positive. So what is this assistance you need from me?" she asked, curiously. "How can _I _be of service?" she added with a small smile.

It took a little while longer to calm the droid down. But when she finally succeeded, Threepio sighed loudly and mechanically and finally declared:

"Well, perhaps, Miss Padmé, we'd best go inside."

Those were the exact same words he had used when Anakin had inquired about Shmi. Suddenly no longer amused, Padmé jumped to her feet and followed the shuffling droid.

''

Bits and pieces of his conversation with Anakin echoed in Owen's mind as he made his way to the house. It was strange to finally realize just how much and for how long he had resented, albeit subconsciously, the phantom image of Anakin Skywalker for what Owen had always understood as the other boy's abandoning of Mother Shmi. A part of him, Owen admitted, would probably always resent Anakin for that. But he understood Anakin better now. Understood now, on so many levels, that the pull of duty sometimes took you away from the people you loved. Just as Anakin had left his Mother in order to be a position to help her, so now would the need to protect his family take Owen from them.

He hoped Anakin would take their offer and stay on. Anakin was needed more here than for any abstract purposes in the galaxy. And the ultimate reason why Anakin was training to be a Jedi - for his mother - no longer existed.

As Owen had anticipated, the house was empty. Beru would be checking the filters now; he had noticed Padmé watching them digging and she had probably gone to Anakin after Owen left. Threepio was nowhere in sight but Owen had given the droid specific orders; Threepio knew from (harsh) experience better than to break them.

He had the house entirely to himself.

The sensation of surrealism, of not being entirely 'there' was stronger now. Owen wandered through the house slowly, remembering, committing to memory. The brick walls were cool to his touch. There was the water mark on the kitchen west wall that demarcated between his handiwork and his father's - they had painted the anti-solar varnish on it together when Owen was twelve. A black ink line that ran from the side of the large window, five feet from the floor, was where Shmi had marked his height on his fourteenth birthday.

He was standing stood in front of his room - _when did I get there?_ - and staring at the carved scribblings on the cemento-ash door. Jen had carved them when he was ten: _"Owen loves Jen."_ She had invited a group of her friends over and told them he actually wrote it. Their merciless teasing had pushed Owen out of the month's silence he had kept after his mother's death. All of ten, with fury twice his size, he had indiscriminately ordered each and every one of them out of his house and had enforced it with the carving knife he had grappled from Jen. When Father had come home that night, instead of the whipping Owen expected, his Father had curtly informed him that Jen would be staying with them for the rest of the season and Owen would be entirely in her care.

Owen smiled now. At that moment in time, he had felt his Father was giving him the worse punishment.

He opened the door finally and stepped inside, walking with the same strange lack of coordination to the other side of the room, he sat heavily on his bed. His eyes wandered around the room: a holo of his mother, the blanket he had owned since his earliest memories, his father's old cloak, a battered pair of sandball gloves - a gift from Shmi and a sport he had only taken up after Shollie Dorr had informed him that Beru Whitesun liked sandball players - the pen knife he had kept from the scuffle with Jen, the pipe that Nathan Kendall had given him on his sixteenth birthday…

, the blood-stained tunic he had removed earlier…

The memories washed over him and he let them. There was no hurry. He had nothing of his that he intended to take along with him; not even a loose piece of thread would follow him into slavery.

He reached into his sleeve and touched the loan shark's bite. It had stopped throbbing long before he got home; it had barely even bled, in fact. He absentmindedly rubbed the tender skin now.

He had fallen completely into a state of semi-stupor when someone knocked on the door.

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

**Healing****

* * *

Chapter V **

''

The two in the kitchen had been sitting at the table for almost half an hour. The house was empty except for them and silent. The quiet had now stretched on for so long that it almost seemed to dare either of them to break it.

Owen opted not to. Instead, he continued to study the figures on the data pad in front of him even though he had memorized the values by now. His mind was trying to figure out what the catch was in all this.

"The balance is authentic," the outlander woman - Padmé - said at last, apparently taking the dare. "You have my assurance on that."

Owen rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. "I don't doubt that, in the least, Miss."

"Padmé." She said, automatically.

Owen didn't acknowledge her correction. He finally raised his head from his careful perusal of the data pad, and looked straight at her. "This is an awful lot of money for a droid."

"Well," she replied, "I could only make rough estimates of the costs of his individual parts and functions. If I over-estimated prices of certain parts, I am sure I also grossly under-estimated others."

"Not at all. A newer model won't cost up to a quarter of this and Threepio's been pretty beaten up."

An indignant voice from the corner of the room spoke up before Padmé could reply. "I beg your pardon, Master Owen, but the state of my superficial system is not an accurate indication of -"

"Threepio," Owen said warningly.

"Yes, Master Owen?"

"Shut up."

The droid fell silent. Owen turned back Padmé. "So, Miss, I think -" He broke off mid-sentence when he realized that he was talking to the back of her head. She had turned to stare at Threepio.

"Miss?"

She turned back to him with a look of incredulity on her face. "However did you get him to do that?"

"Do what?" Owen asked, although he suspected what she meant.

"Be quiet. At once. He doesn't shut up for anything."

There was a protesting rustle of metal and wheels from where Threepio stood; but the mechanical vocoder remained silent.

Owen shrugged. He could never understand why everyone was always so astounded by his ability to silence Threepio at will. Admittedly, the droid had a uniquely irritating personality motivator that made it tiresome on a good day, but after all, it was still only a machine. One gave it instructions and it obeyed because it was programmed to. It was as simple as that.

But whenever Owen had tried to explain that, his family only looked at him more disbelievingly and after a while, he had stopped trying to convince people that he did not have some sort of special power over the droid.

He gave Padmé his standard issue response:

"Oh, he'll forget in about half an hour and start talking again."

"Ten minutes is enough victory for me," she murmured. She still looked amazed.

Owen smiled despite himself.

Then Padmé cleared her throat. "It is obvious that as well as his contributions to the farm, he has a lot of sentimental value for your family," she continued gently. "And that's why I am willing to -"

Owen rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "Threepio's … _was_ Mother Shmi's. And now he is Anakin's. You can't buy him from _us_."

"Well, _I_ want Threepio," she retorted. "Anakin couldn't keep him even if he wanted to. He's a Jedi."

"So?" Owen really didn't understand.

She stared. "Jedi don't have possessions or attachments."

"Then what are you?" asked Owen and almost bit his tongue. She went bright red. "Sorry," he muttered, tapping his fingers nervously on the table, "that's none of my business."

"No, no, it's okay," she stammered. There followed an uncomfortable pause during which Owen could mentally see Beru's eyes rolling at his utter lack of subtlety. When Padmé spoke again, her voice was low and rushed, a bit uncertain, almost as if she was confiding in him, and utterly unlike the gently confident way she normally spoke. "I…" she hesitated, and then she continued rather fiercely, "I _care_ about Anakin. I am indebted to him in many, many ways. The least I can do is to get Threepio and have him share some of his … memories of Shmi … with Anakin. Anakin's more likely to get to see Threepio with me on Coruscant."

"You're sure of that?" Owen asked, rather challengingly.

"Sure of what?" She asked, obviously not understanding him.

"That Anakin is going back with you to Coruscant. That he's not staying here."

She started; the data-pad jogged on the table. "Is that what he's decided?" she asked, very, very quietly.

Owen shrugged. _That's what we'd like_, he thought. "Father said he would make the offer." He looked at her steadily. "This _is_ Anakin's home, you know. As much as it is … was Mother Shmi's."

"Anakin is a Jedi," she said. Her voice was very quiet, even and controlled, _extremely_ controlled. "He needs to return to Coruscant and continue his training. That's what _his mother_ wanted."

_Much good that's done for him! Much good that's done for Mother Shmi!_ Owen thought with some irritation, his fingers beating faster on the table. Outwardly, he retorted, "That's his decision, I guess."

"Of course," she replied, in a rather grim voice. Her face was pale, Owen noticed suddenly; as a matter of fact, it was ash-white. For some reason, his eyes went to her hands and he felt them widen at the sight of ten bone-white knuckles on the fingers gripping the edge of the table. Hard. The sight was unnerving enough for his own hands to still.

"Please, you need to make a decision on Threepio now." She insisted. "If you need to talk to your Father about it… Anakin _and_ I might have to leave any moment from now."

The inflexion of her voice on the '_and'_ for some reason recalled to Owen an image of durasteel embedded in concrete.

He tore his eyes from her hands in surprise. "I have made the decision," he exclaimed. "If Anakin wants you to have Threepio, that's fine with us. Like I already said, he's _Anakin's_."

"He _can't_ be Anakin's. Anakin can't own _anything_."

"Then I suppose it passes to you," Owen retorted. He didn't know exactly what this outlander woman was playing at and he was pretty fed up by now.

"I want to buy Threepio from _you_!" Then she sucked in her breath sharply.

Owen Lars opened his mouth to retort; then he snapped it closed at once. Hot blood was rising up in his face in a furious wave.

He had finally figured out the 'catch'.

''

A few minutes ago, as Padmé idly studied Owen while he studied her data-pad, she had decided that in a few years, Owen Lars would look exactly like his father. Now, she was rapidly reconsidering that conclusion. The expression on his face went from one of mildly irritable to a complete fury she could not imagine on gentle Cliegg Lars. Padmé could practically see as the pieces slowly and surely came together in his mind and apparently, the picture they formed was not at all to his liking. His eyes glared down at the data pad in front of him and his jaw worked furiously.

Her heart, which had started beating furiously when Owen had so casually and cruelly mentioned Anakin remaining on Tatooine, slowed into a defeated crawl.

"I am sorry," she said placatingly. "I tried to be-"

"Threepio!" Owen shouted suddenly, startling her into silence.

The droid came alive in a whir of gears. "Master Owen," it began in a voice that was distinctly a whine, "bearing in mind the particulars of your last instructions to me, I should be exempted -"

Owen cut him off at once. "Who else have you told?" He asked furiously.

"No one else, Master Owen!" Threepio whined earnestly. "I swear by all my original circuits!"

Owen glared at the droid as if he would like to take those original circuits apart and check.

Padmé licked her lips nervously. "Owen," she ventured.

Owen turned his furious gaze from Threepio to her. "Look, Miss, I take care of my own problems. I don't need help from an outlander who doesn't know how things are done here."

"I'm only trying to help," Padmé said gently.

"Well, I don't _need_ your help," he said angrily. He got up, leaving the data pad on the table. "And I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourself." He said in a voice that said it was not entirely a request.

"If you don't need _my_ help, _whose_ will you take?" Padmé asked loudly. "Are you planning on asking any one for help at all?" She could feel her grip on her own temper loosening.

"This is _my _problem, Miss!" Owen retorted. "And _I_'m going to fix it."

Her chest tightened at his words, and then burned and she could feel the heat go up to her throat, choking her. Her face must have shown something of her inner emotions because Owen's anger seemed to recede a bit into concern. She forced in a deep (burning) breath and tried to calm herself.

"Miss -" he began, a little quieter.

Marginally calmer now and at least coherent, Padmé cut him off. "Yes, of course. You're going to _fix_ it. And after you've sold yourself as a slave to your loan shark, and paid off the farm's debt, have you stopped to think about your Father? About Beru? About what this on top of everything else is going to do to them?"

His face darkened immediately. "I _am_ thinking about them. If I don't do this, we lose everything. I made the mistake. _I_ have to pay the consequences."

"And create even worse ones in the process?" She retorted. "Because Anakin's not going to stay here and take care of the farm and your father when you go off tomorrow," she hissed. "He's leaving Tatooine and I don't think he's ever coming back."

"You can't know that for sure." He insisted.

Blood rushed to her head at his words and she looked away quickly to hide the anger and fright that she knew must be stark on her face.

"I have nothing to discuss with you, Miss." Owen said firmly and he emphasized the point by getting to his feet. "I'll be in the garden outside. Let me know when you're leaving so I can activate the force fields." He strode quickly across the kitchen.

_No, no, no!_

This was not how Padmé had envisioned this going at all. She had thought this out carefully after Threepio had confided in her; she had taken into consideration everything that could go wrong and decided that this plan could not fail; she was supposed to have made the offer for Threepio in a professional manner, emphasizing on Anakin in an emotional appeal and Owen was supposed to have been moved by compassion for his step-brother, overwhelmed with the unexpected boon and accepted graciously.

Everything could not have gone more completely wrong.

She heard his retreating footsteps walk out of the kitchen. She wanted to speak but she was so emotionally agitated that she was not sure if she could trust her own words. She grappled hopelessly with her emotions of guilt, desperation and loss.

"_There are some things no one can fix."_

Her own words echoed in her head and mocked her.

His footsteps were coming from the entrance steps now. In a fit of utter desperation, without pausing to rationalize or plan further, Padmé got to her feet.

''

"Owen!"

He was no longer angry; his temper was well-tamed and bouts of rage were rare; and when his anger _did_ flare, it burnt itself out almost immediately. Now, he was just determined, and very weary.

He heaved a sigh. "Miss," he said firmly, one foot on the top-most step and his back to her.

"I have something to say to you. Look at me."

He turned at once, not because she asked him but because of the _way_ she asked him. From the start, it had been impossible not to notice how strange her outlander accent sounded and how different it was even from Anakin's. It was educated, carefully modulated and completely expressionless.

Now, her accent was completely distorted: It was anguished and incoherent.

And she _looked_ anguished. Her head was tilted upwards at him and although she was not crying, the expression on her face made him wish she were. Owen looked away at once, characteristically feeling distinctly uncomfortable around feminine vulnerability.

He was also badly startled. This outlander woman did not seem like the kind that got anguished easily. She had not even cried when Shmi was brought home.

He fought against his instincts and descended the steps cautiously. "Miss, maybe I should get…" the sentence trailed off, his words sounding lame to his own ears.

"Please let me help you," she said quietly.

Owen shook his head, feeling like an utter heel as he looked away from her. "Look, Miss…"

"You _have_ to let me do this," Padmé cried, her voice becoming utterly frantic. He flinched. "Owen, this is not just about you. Or Beru. Or even your father." She choked and fell silent. He sneaked a glance at her from the corner of his eye. She was looking down at her feet, her shoulders shaking slightly. He looked away at once. "Let me do this for _Shmi_," she said at last to the ground. "Please, don't deny me the one chance I have to do _something_ for her.

"_Please_."

_The one chance I have to do something…_ _for Shmi._

That one impassioned argument touched Owen more than her earlier logic could ever have done. He understood all about opportunities missed and eternally regretted.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to be reasonable. She _was_ right about what she had said about his father and the farm. He was being a selfish fool to think that he could just up and leave the farm without hurting Father and Beru. He was a fool to even think that Beru would be willing to wait on indefinitely, staying with his father during the years it would take Owen to work off his debt.

Owen made up his mind. He went back into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Picking up the data pad again, he re-familiarized himself with its digital figures and at the same time, ostentatiously gave her enough time to compose herself. Half an hour ago, when Padmé had asked him down to the kitchen and made her bid to him, his mind had automatically made the calculations and realized that this very amount would be just enough to solve all his problems. Just enough and not one credit in excess. She was no fool. She knew he would not take any credit more than she could give.

But still -

Padmé had followed him into the kitchen. Owen snuck a glance at her and at once, felt a more at ease. She still looked pale, but quite composed and her completely dry eyes showed no signs of redness. Perhaps, she simply _couldn't_ cry, he thought rather off-pointedly. According to Beru, her mother, Lora Whitesun, was like that. (Owen suspected though, that that was probably due to the fact that the woman had no heart.)

Padmé sat across from him and he gathered his thoughts immediately. "This is a loan," he said firmly. "Just remember that. I'm letting you take Threepio because he belongs to Anakin now and Mother Shmi would like that. You're not _buying_ him from us and the minute I've got enough money, I'm sending this loan back to your account. With interest." He looked at her seriously.

She nodded gravely. Then she gave a tentative smile, "As long as you don't charge Hutt rates." She frowned a little. "I know Republic credits aren't acceptable on Tatooine but you can convert them to whatever major currency the loaner would prefer."

"Oh, that won't be a problem. He'll take whatever I give him," said Owen grimly. The thought was a happy one and he smiled. He looked across at the outlander woman's still-pale face and he felt his heart suddenly clench with gratitude. "Miss," he said gruffly, "thank you." – She made a frantic negating gesture but he just ploughed ahead – "I know I've not given you reason to think so but I'm much obliged to you, Miss."

"Padmé."

Owen shrugged. He pocketed the data pad and got to his feet. She stood up with him.

"We'd better start going," she said. "They must be ready by now."

_Mother Shmi's funeral._

The momentary feeling of light-heartedness dissipated at once.

Owen followed Padmé up the steps. Threepio came to life in a whirr of gears and shuffled circumspectly behind them. Its vocoder made a sound that was the mechanical equivalent of a throat clearing. Owen spared the droid a glance (that was a mixture of healthy irritation, and yes - even if Owen would never admit it - anticipated nostalgia) and whatever inclination Threepio might have had to speak died at once.

They paused outside while Owen activated the force fields. Padmé turned to him.

"Thank you, Owen."

He opened his mouth to disclaim her gratitude - as he did so, he looked up from the controls and straight into her grave (and rather sad now that he actually noticed it) face - and he closed it.

Instead, he just lifted his forelock respectfully at her. She smiled a little and nodded at him again. Then they made their way across the sands, Threepio in tow.

''

Finally, Owen, Padmé and Threepio were coming along. Beru watched the three figures approaching as she, Father Cliegg and Anakin waited.

The two groups joined up and Padmé and Threepio walked on ahead with Father Cliegg and Anakin (Padmé went directly to Anakin's side but did not take his hand) and all four started discussing something in low tones. Owen seemed to be deliberately lagging and soon the others were walking on well ahead of the young couple. Beru started turning to him to ask him to hurry up when she suddenly found herself being lifted from behind into a gigantic bear hug.

She managed not to squeal, but only barely.

"Owen put me down!" She whispered breathlessly into his shoulder.

He did eventually, but only after he had buried his nose in her soft fair hair and breathed in deeply, committing her scent once again to memory. He placed her on her feet and stared deep into her bright blue eyes, taking in all the planes and shadows of her delicate pixyish features.

Her emotions - and the expression on her face - went from delight to worry.

"Owen," she asked. "What is it?"

He smiled at her and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.

"Owen," she repeated, more worriedly this time.

"Nothing," he lied.

Beru could see through him as clearly as if he were plasti-glass. She frowned at once.

"What?" he said, defensively. "Do I need an good reason to just _look_ at you?" He smiled tenderly as he reached out his hand to smoothen out the frown.

It re-knotted underneath his fingers and he heaved a sigh. Beru glared up at him, determined not to let him off so easily. She had far from forgotten their earlier interrupted conversation.

"Something _was_ wrong, Beru," he admitted finally. "But now it's not. And… I… I… you're important, Beru," he stammered awkwardly. "You're so important… to me… and I couldn't remember if I had told you so lately." He concluded, and his face burned with heat that wasn't from the twin suns.

Owen's embarrassment was worth it. The suspicion lifted - temporarily - from Beru's blue eyes and they were now shining at him with tenderness and affection. He _did _plan to tell her the whole story someday, only much later, certainly not now. At any rate, his words were more than a mere ruse to distract her; he meant every one of them. It was something that had always been understood between them, ever since he was fourteen and had given her the sandball he had won from Shollie Jinn. But now, something had suddenly given him the urge to say the words out loud.

Owen also hoped that she moreover understood that, once said, the words won't be repeated (by him at any rate) anytime soon.

Beru took his large hands and held them firmly in her strong, small ones.

"You tell me with a lot more than words. In ways I won't forget." she said gently. Her eyes sparkled with sudden mischief and her voice changed into a sing-song drawl. "And you're important to me too, Owen Lars." His face reddened even further and she giggled.

She stood on tip-toe and kissed him. He recovered from his embarrassment quickly enough to return her kiss. A warm current of interwoven emotions - affection, passion, empathy - passed between them and it was some moments before she finally, literally came down to earth. They gazed gently into each other's eyes for a while longer. Then she turned into his embrace, throwing an arm around his waist as he threw his own around her shoulder. Supporting each other like that, they made their way together towards the tomb markers.

''

A sudden message from the droid.

"Does that name mean anything to you, sir?"

Anakin's slumped shoulders. "Yes, it does."

Padmé silently offering her hand to Father, then very gravely to Owen while Anakin followed suit. A hug from Beru and a kiss on the cheek from Anakin.

"Are you coming back?" Only Owen felt the need to still ask.

Shared looks between Anakin and Padmé. His was undecided; hers was veiled and anxious.

It was Anakin that answered: "I don't know."

The two humans and the two droids making their way across the sand. An oddly mismatched quartet. Tall and short. Angular and cylindrical. Black and white. Rust and chrome. _Sand and water?_

A few moments later, from where the Lars stood they could see the ship, sleek and glinting like some rare and exotic bird, rise up in the shimmering air as it entered the atmosphere.

And then it was gone.

Perhaps it was best they had left the way they did, Owen decided. A no-nonsense parting. No awkward, prolonged goodbyes. No tears.

The Lars did not leave Shmi's grave until late evening. The second-hand repulsors underneath Father's chair bounced off the rock unsteadily as it zoomed towards the house. Owen and Beru followed him at an easier pace, talking softly.

"Isn't it strange?" Owen said once.

"What?"

"They came and left so quickly, they were hardly here. And yet I miss them already."

"They're family," Beru said gently.

"She was right then."

"Padmé? About what?"

"Anakin. That he won't stay here... that he would never come back here."

"It doesn't change anything. They are a part of us now. And they will be forever."

_tbc_


	6. Chapter 6

**Healing**

**

* * *

Chapter VI **

''

The next morning, the binary sun rose on an especially busy day for the moisture farmers of Tatooine. It was the first day after the end of the harvest season and it was the customary time for the seasonal overhaul of all farm machinery and equipment. The vaparators had to be completely drained and the liquid crop stored in one of the domestic vats. All the automated controls in the farms would be shut down in order to perform the necessary maintenance work on the systems in preparation for the next 'planting' season.

Owen had gone off early to help out a friend, but he made it clear that he would be back as quickly as possible. Beru and Cliegg started work on the farm.

Cliegg's hoverchair was five metres from the ground as it floated next to the vaparator. He was collating the sensor readings manually into the data pad on his lap. Not far away, Beru was supervising the vapo-tech droids, borrowed from the Darklighter's farm, as they overhauled one of the older vaparators. She was doing Threepio's old job, one that the protocol droid had performed very enthusiastically, throwing his weight over the mechanic droids.

Threepio was gone now … as well as other things. Yet life went on… And the Lars coped with it as best they could.

_Shmi…_

The ache was still there, along with the ache for Akia and the child he had never known. But Cliegg knew from experience that one day it would be bearable.

His thoughts went to Shmi's son. Had he done right by the boy?

Perhaps he would never know.

"Father Cliegg!"

Cliegg looked down to see Beru standing at the base of the vaparator he was working at.

"What?" He asked, as if he did not know.

"Time for your medicine."

Cliegg grimaced. "I'll take it when I'm done," he said brusquely, more out of force of habit than with any real hope that she would make an exception today.

He was right. She did not.

"You have to take it _now_." The sentence ended with an inflexion that was midway between an entreaty and a threat.

Cliegg muttered all the way down his descent of the vaparator. Beru grinned at his disagreeable face and they walked/floated side by side to the house together.

''

Owen's hair was slick under his hand as he pushed it off his forehead. The sweat was cool against his cheeks and between his skin and his clothes. As always, he relished the sensation of feeling the evidence of his work so close to his own body.

Jen handed him a half-cup of water. He sipped it gratefully. Cool, sweet and all too quickly gone. He sighed heavily.

"I owe you one, brat," she said gruffly as he jumped behind the driver seat.

Owen lifted his forelock respectfully and grinned at her. "Yes, ma'am," he replied promptly.

This time he recognised the smile.

The ride to town was the same trip he had made yesterday but in many ways it could not have been more different. Gone were the anger and the anxiety, instead his heart was light, almost carefree as the speeder flew across the Dune Sea.

Owen felt almost guilty being this happy and he had said as much to Beru last night. She had replied sensibly that they all felt this way and that was because they now had closure. Anakin had come back and Shmi had been returned. It was not at all in the way they had hoped for and they would have to live with the grief of losing her for the rest of their lives; but it would have been far, far worse if they had had to live the rest of their lives with never knowing for sure what had happened to Shmi.

The dome-shaped structures of civilization were approaching. He had reached town. He parked the speeder and made his way into the market. He drove a hard bargain with the merchant that he finally sold Jen's harvest to, got a fair price at just a little less than what he paid for the day before. Then he went looking for his loan shark.

''

The house was cool after the warm morning sunshine. Father Cliegg pulled up at the table, privately relieved to relax his muscles while Beru fetched the medicine pack from the cooler. She measured out the medicine but he gave himself the injection from the hypodermic syringe. From the moment he had regained consciousness after the 'accident', Father Cliegginsisted on administering to himself as much as possible and he still did so. He was not an invalid, he had declared, and he would not allow himself to be treated like one.

Watching her boyfriend's father push a needle into his body had long lost its morbid fascination for Beru; she went into the kitchen and started cooking. Although Father Cliegg would be the last person to admit this, he was always slightly disoriented after taking his medication. The meal would be a necessary deterrent to his insisting on returning immediately to work.

Predictably enough, he called from the table. "I'm through, let's go." His voice was thin and weak.

"Well, I'm not," she said firmly. "I need a glass of milk and some cakes."

"Time is money," Cliegg retorted. As weak as his voice was, it still managed to grumble.

"Sorry," she called back without any trace of apology.

There was silence from the table as she carefully filled two tall glasses with blue milk.

"Well, might as well take something while I wait for you," Father Cliegg finally said.

Beru smiled as she lifted the serving tray and stepped away from the counter.

They sipped and ate in companionably silence. Father Cliegg was breathing heavily between bites. Beru wondered if allowing him to work on the farm had been a good idea. He had argued, reasonably, this morning that she shouldn't work outside on her own. Ideally the new force fields should be enough protection but it would be foolish to take any chances. What had persuaded her was her own private trepidation: If anything were to happen to her while Owen was gone and Father Cliegg was left alone and defenceless, she would never forgive herself. So she had consented. The suns only knew when Owen would be back from town; Beru couldn't wait idly and indefinitely while the work on the farm piled up.

As it were though, with Father Cliegg's obvious exhaustion, she might have no other choice but to wait.

Her thoughts and the silence were suddenly broken by a siren-like signal. Someone at the edge of the force field was activating the glockenspiel.

Beru looked at Father Cliegg in surprise. Interaction between the farmsteads had been very subdued recently. It had been a long time since visitors had dropped in unannounced on the farm.

Cliegg raised his eyebrows. "Are we expecting anybody?"

Beru was already on her way to the kitchen. She switched on the tiny viewing screen on the wall. The distorted holo-image of Mixer Lak's sunburnt face looked back at her.

"It's Mixer," she told Father Cliegg as she turned on the switch that would enable the audio signal.

"What does he want?" asked Cliegg, coming up behind her.

"Farmer Lars, Miss Whitesun," the altered, unnaturally high-pitched voice of the boy declared through the speakers, "there is something happening over at the Dune Sea that we thought you might want to see."

Both Beru and Father Cliegg froze in shock.

Cliegg unfroze first.

"Idiot boy! What the Hell are you doing up there?" He shouted furiously.

Mixer's face seemed to darken even more in the holo. "No, sir…"

"That is no place for tomfoolery!"

"It's nothing like that, sir… Honest…"

"Then what then?" asked Cliegg, still raging.

"There was… the settlement… the Tuskens…"

All three farmers shuddered simultaneously at the mention of _them. _

Mixer swallowed visibly. "You just have to come and see." The holo was getting smaller; he was moving away. "You just have to come and see. You won't believe it if I told you."

"Believe what? What happened?"

But the shadowy figure of Mixer was already climbing astride the scoop they could see in the background. There was a high-pitched whine as the engine came on and then he disappeared from the range of the holo view cam.

''

The creature flashed all canines when Owen threw the data chip on its desk.

"It be hard for me to exchange Republic credits," his business partner whined as his snout sniffed over the chip. "You will have to pay me extra for exchange tax."

"The tax is part of the total," snapped Owen.

"But it change almost on the hour, see?" came the earnest reply. Fake eye stalks jerked in Owen's direction. "Better add 5 to be sure," it said, with every sign of sensibility.

"You are not getting another credit out of me," Owen said grimly.

The lights in the creature's snout glowed. "I call 'collectors' for you," he threatened, his voice losing some of its fake geniality. "You better change mind fast."

Owen's hand lunged. His aim was far better and more technical than before when he was almost blind with anger. The creature's jaws snapped on air and then they fell open with a bloodcurling scream.

Owen had lifted up the loan shark by its eye stalks. The slimy tentacles squirmed frantically in his clenched fist while the creature bounced, all the while crying in pain. From the back doors, two large and furry, man-sized bipeds came out.

Owen spared them a glance. "Better go back to your cages if you don't want me to amputate your boss' feelers."

The goons paused uncertainly.

Owen tightened his grip.

The loan shark screamed louder. "Go back, go back!"

They went in hurriedly. Still holding onto the creature, Owen went to shut the door after them. Then he dropped the creature on the table with its stalks still firmly in his grip.

"Accredit the transaction," Owen said calmly.

"Cannot see. Cannot see. You blind me," moaned the crafty old thing.

Owen's fist tightened fractionally.

It was enough. "Okay, I manage."

With shaking limbs, the loan shark inserted his verification code on the data chip and into their transaction records. Owen verified the transaction, taking his time to ascertain that every clause had indeed been accredited and ignoring his business partner's monotonous squealing. Finally satisfied, Owen pocketed the data pads and shook the feelers in his hand. The being whimpered.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you." The young farmer declared. He unlocked his fist and the creature went sprawling on the table.

"You pay!" The loan shark screamed, scrambling on all fours. "You pay!"

Owen paused in the middle of wiping his hands on his robes. "Perhaps you would prefer to lodge a complaint with the Hutts?"

The being went completely rigid. His very feelers froze.

Owen extrapolated genially: "They were _very_ interested in your loan charges when I spoke to them earlier today."

The chameleon complexion mottled.

Owen continued in the same conversational tone: "I was in too much of a hurry to go into details but since you feel so cheated …" He paused dramatically.

The loan shark finally found his voice. Remarkably, it was even thinner and higher than it had been when his feelers were in Owen's fist. "Me? Feel cheated?" He squealed rapidly and nervously. "You humans not know how to take joke, heh?" He made an inarticulate squealing noise that took Owen a couple of seconds to interpret as a laugh. "Everything always so serious always, heh?" He made that squealing noise again.

Owen gave a grim little smile, a final swipe of his hand on his tunic, and turned away.

"Wait!" cried the loan shark. "You not go to Hutts, again, see? No need, see? We do good business, see?" The upper flesh of its snout pulled back shakily in a chattering grin.

In reply, Owen's smile broadened sinisterly; the rigid feelers of the loan shark snapped in violent reflex. But the young farmer merely gave the creature a sharp nod and without another word, walked through the door.

The two goons burst in moments later. After roundly cursing and biting them, their employer calmed down enough to allow them administer a soothing lotion to his inflamed tentacles. In the middle of their nervous administrations, the loan shark gave a sudden little chuckle.

One goon looked uneasily at the other. The other refused to catch its eye.

"These moisture farmers be not so stupid," murmured the loan shark to himself. "And I wanted originality. And got it. For no extra charge. Not bad business, all in all."

''

Cliegg reached across and switched off the audio comm and view screen.

"That idiot Lak and his gang!" he declared, still fuming.

He threw a glance at Beru and his irritation dissipated at once. She was still frozen, except for her hands which were shaking violently.

"Beru?" Cliegg asked, surprised.

Without answering, she moved to the table and started clearing the eating utensils. Her movements were quick and automatic. When she lifted the tray, it wobbled slightly and the utensils rattled. Cliegg's chair moved forward but she had already got it under control.

She smiled shakily and quickly walked to the counter and placed the tray down. "Mixer talking about _them_… shook me up, that's all," she said finally.

"Damn boys have no business wandering near those sand people," Cliegg repeated. "What trouble have they got into now?" he asked with no small anxiety in his voice.

Beru was carefully cleaning and drying their dishes. "He wanted us to see something," she said.

"Yes, he did." Cliegg was pensive for a while. Then he looked up at her. "Well, let's go. We'll take the clodhopper."

Beru froze. "You want us to go now?"

Cliegg looked at her in surprise. "Why not?"

"The farm… and shouldn't we wait for Owen…?"

Cliegg shook his head empathically. "I want to know what those kids have got up to. The sooner we go the better."

Beru methodically folded the drying cloth and placed it on the top of the cooler. She was very pale, Cliegg noticed suddenly. Her hands were still shaking.

"Beru, are you alright?" He asked.

"Of …. Of course, I'm fine. Why… why do you ask?" Her voice shook.

"Your hands are shaking," Cliegg said dryly.

At once, she balled them up into fists. "Mixer shook me up." She repeated.

Cliegg was unconvinced; his son's girlfriend was a level-headed girl who had stayed alone in the farmstead the night of the raid and had always risen admirably to the occasion several times before and after that; her problems with her family were an open secret on the farmlands but she never advertised them and behaved very responsibly at all times. Beru Whitesun was an extremely sensible girl and that was the highest compliment Cliegg could think of of any young female on the farmlands.

He decided not to press the matter further - for now. He had a fairly good idea what it was, anyway. In fact, it was to be expected: the girl had been doing the work of four people for the past four weeks: housekeeper, nurse and farmhand. And it was beginning to tell.

"Work on the farm can wait," he said firmly. She needed a break; and if he were frank with himself, so did he. His stump was aching, a sure sign that he was tired. "Let's go and see what's happening at the Dune Sea."

Beru nodded meekly, confirming his suspicions further. She really was tired if she could not even give him a decent counter-argument.

''

Owen walked with a spring in his step as he made his unflinching way back to his speeder. After that last cryptic message, he had no fear of the loan shark sending anybody after him. Owen had not really reported to the Hutts - he was as disinclined as his former business partner to tangle with them - but the loan shark would turn itself in rather than wait to find out. Owen had Padmé to thank for that - he _would_ find a way to pay back that loan, one way or the other - and Anakin, who yesterday had unwittingly dropped a few hints about how to deal with this species of sentients while he and Owen talked and worked over Mother Shmi's grave.

All in all, it had not been bad business.

"_Wiped out, completely." _

"_Jawas." _

"_Jawas?" _

"_Then who, the farmers?" _

"_Maybe another tribe?" _

The conversation of a pair of sentients beside him passed over Owen's head. He was about to get into his speeder when one of them called his attention.

A Twi'lek male in purple robes and a red-skinned humanoid with the trademark tattoo of a cultist across its cheeks. Owen stiffened automatically.

The humanoid ignored his tension. "You're a moisture farmer, aren't you?" She asked in flawless Basic. Owen could tell by her voice that she was female.

Owen nodded warily.

"Are you people responsible for the killing of a tribe of Sand People two nights ago?

Owen stared.

"Are you not aware?" The Twi'lek asked in surprise.

"No. What happened?"

The pair exchanged glances. "That's the question every one is asking."

"Perhaps a herd of krayt dragons attacked them," Owen said slowly.

"And left the dead bodies, flesh and all?" the cultist countered. She shook her head at Owen and she and her companion drifted off.

Owen remained standing by the speeder, staring after them long after they were out of sight.

_tbc_


	7. Chapter 7

**Healing**

* * *

**Chapter VII**

There was more traffic in the farmlands that morning than Cliegg had seen in a long time. Clodhoppers, landspeeders, scoops, even domesticated banthas. After a while he stopped giving Beru directions. A wet-haired Outlander would have been able to locate the Tusken settlement in these conditions, even if his ship had landed smack in the middle of the Dune Sea. The thick, foggy air and the deep tracks on the ill-used sand lanes pointed a steady arrow to the Tusken settlement better than any compass.

There was a build-up of vehicles on the overhanging crag that overlooked the settlement. Beru parked further off from the build-up - so they could leave as soon as they needed to - and they got out.

Beru went to the Darklighters who had just alighted a few metres away from the family landspeeder. Cliegg hovered near their own clodhopper and kept his distance. Ruth Darklighter, his childhood playmate and life-long friend, had never actually come right out and told him that she hated him and blamed him for her husband's death. But she did not have to. More effective were the cool way she treated him and the quick exits she always used in the few occasions they had met since Shmi's abduction. Cliegg did not for one minute fault her or anyone of the score of widows and fatherless children who occasionally regarded him with something less than charity in their eyes. How could he? They had lost their husbands and fathers because he could not take care of his wife.

So he watched Beru and the other women talk animatedly and he wondered what under the suns had the Sand People done to warrant rousing the whole of the farmlands.

Memories of the last time he had stood on this crag - the last time he had stood at all - suddenly hit Cliegg.

Dust. Blood. Sand.

Shmi.

Twenty-five of his best friends and their sons.

Cliegg looked down at the stump that used to be his right leg and wondered if the nightmare would ever end.

Owen made a detour before he got to Jenny's. He had been to the settlement twice but he would have found it just as easily all the same. A convergence of speeder tracks marked the route and when he got to the site, there was a crowd of farmers.

Owen fought his way to the centre and stopped. One glance was all it took to confirm that this was not the work of krayt dragons and it certainly was not the work of Jawas. The regimented village he had spied on a few weeks ago had been - there was no other word to describe it - ravaged. There was blood everywhere. The red liquid had mixed with the sand, splattered against the brown canvas tents. The entire place literally looked like a slaughter house. Some people were gathering the corpses and piling them into a heap. Owen stared at one, broken and mutilated. He looked away, and turned his gaze through the crowd until he spotted a young man standing at the edge of the settlement, apparently organising the people that were gathering the corpses. Owen made his way over to Marxus Jin.

"Hello, Marx," Owen said.

"Owen," the man turned to him. A few weeks ago, Owen's father used to call Marx a boy; Marx was a season younger than Owen in age and five seasons younger in behaviour. A few weeks ago. Like the other three farmers who had gone to rescue Shmi Skywalker and survived that first raid on the Tusken settlement, Marx had aged. Visibly and permanently. There was a borderline of gray hair along the edge of his scalp and the petulant knot that used to form between his brows had become a more adult and more permanent feature.

Now, that knot seemed to have temporarily cleared. Marx almost looked like his old self. He was grinning wildly, his eyes almost glowing with glee at Owen.

"What happened here?" Owen asked.

Marx shrugged. "Who knows? Who cares? They're gone and that's all that matters."

Owen frowned. "If another tribe did this to them, we would have to care."

"It was not another tribe. Yesterday, Nat Kendall recognised some of the stuff in the Jawas brought out of their sandcrawler. So he followed them, tracked them down to here. And he found this. According to him, there were no bantha tracks to show that another tribe had been here of late."

"Nathan Kendall? _Nattie_ Kendall? You're taking his word for this."

Marx smiled darkly. "Nat is crazy and I'm the first person to say so. Talking nonsense... sneaking out of his house to look for Raiders... But when it comes to Sand Folk, he's a very good authority."

"That's when he's the most crazy."

"Yes. And that's when he's the most correct."

Owen looked around. "Is he here?"

Marx snorted. "He went into another convulsion soon after he led us here. His daughters had to carry him home."

Owen stared silently as at the pyre building up around the heap of bodies.

"So if the dragons didn't do this, or the Jawas" - Marx laughed - "or another tribe. Then who did?"

Marx shrugged again. "I don't know. But whoever it was, I wish he had stuck around so I could thank him."

Owen started and he looked sharply at Marx. But his friend was already going forward to claim the torch that someone was handing to him. Marx stared down silently at the pile of bodies for a long time; then he said something, low and indiscernible but unmistakably vicious. He placed the torch on the pyre and it enflamed immediately.

The crowd cheered.

Owen looked around. The numbers had increased. People must have come as soon as they got wind of the news. He glimpsed Jen Dorr's younger sister's tear-stained face beneath a hood; beside her stood Col Darkligher's widow, her eyes burning fiercely, and his small son, his tiny face contorted with macabre glee. Father and Beru would also be here somewhere but it would be almost impossible to find them in this crowd.

Marx came back to stand beside him. Owen remained where he was, watching those monsters burn completely; and along with the immediate rush of vindictive pleasure that the sight afforded him, there came as well a vague but definite sense of foreboding.

Long after the majority of the crowd had dispersed, Beru and Father Cliegg were still watching the ashes smouldering in the twilight. That was when they saw Owen, standing at the other side of the bonfire. They made their way across to him. Owen didn't notice them at first because he started when Beru took his hand.

"Father Cliegg, Owen," she said gently. "It's getting late. Let's go home."

Father's eyes, bright and hard in his old, old face, gave the bonfire one last glance; then he turned his chair and started moving away.

Beru squeezed Owen's hand. He looked into her face; his own was pale beneath the sheen of ash, and she could see her own trepidation mirrored there. Then he pulled his hand out of hers and threw his arm around her shoulder, holding her to him. They walked like that behind his father's chair to the speeders waiting a few metres away.

The Lars went home.

**_Fin_**

* * *

_author's note: Thanks so much for following me on this journey. As I've mentioned to a few readers, writing 'Healing' was a cathartis for me during some difficult stages in my life. I'm very grateful to all my reviewers who left feedback and let me know how much they empathized, and enjoyed the story. _

_May the Force be with you, always. _


End file.
